The Us We've Become Accustomed To
by dcfg21
Summary: Sequel to "The You I Never Knew". Greg begins to have issues. Can John and Sherlock help him to see where he fits?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is a sequel to "The You I Never Knew". You probably don't need to read it beforehand, but it wouldn't hurt. And it's pretty good, if I do say so myself.**

John looked up from the paper to see Greg enter the sitting room, bare-chested with his jeans slung low on his hips, and stretch contentedly. When they made eye contact, Greg's eyes warmed and he smiled.

"Sherlock still asleep, then?" John asked.

Greg nodded. "Out like a light."

"Good," John replied. "He needed the rest."

"Well after that, I would say so," Greg chuckled. "I've never seen him like that before. He was like an animal. And I've got the claw marks to prove it." He craned his neck, trying to get a look at his back. "Is he always like that after a case?"

"Sometimes," John smiled. "This last one had him out of sorts, though. So when he finally figured it out, the thrill was a bit much for him, I suppose." He set the paper on the coffee table. "Of course, it didn't help his ego any with you fawning all over him."

"I wasn't fawning," Greg scoffed. "Merely…impressed. More so than usual. You can't tell me it wasn't bloody amazing, him figuring out the killer based on a microwave dinner and the loops on an old belt. Damned amazing."

John's grin grew wider. "Yes, I'll give you that. But it was the look on your face that did it for him. The adoration. Thought you were going start a new religion. 'The Church of Sherlock'. I'm surprised he didn't shag you right there in front of God and the free world."

"Go on with you."

John sniffed. "I've just made tea. Fancy a cuppa?"

"Oh, brilliant, thanks." Greg headed to the kitchen.

He returned with a cup and two biscuits and sat down next to John on the sofa. They sat in comfortable silence for a few, long moments, quietly sipping tea.

John stretched his arms above his head and winced at the sudden, sharp pain, quickly bringing a hand to his injured shoulder.

"Still hurts, then?" Greg asked with concern.

John rolled his shoulder, kneading the muscle, and grunted. "Just a twinge. I know he's always careful, but when he holds my arms back like that for a long time, it stiffens up."

"Yes," Greg murmured, "that position was…interesting."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"So did you," he teased.

"Which is why I'm not complaining," John laughed. He gave a small shudder at the memory; Sherlock's long, lean body taking him from behind, pulling his arms back to grasp him by the wrists for leverage as he thrust, Greg's fingers tightly curled into his hair as he fucked John's mouth from the front, the delicious feeling of having them at both ends making his groin twitch. Just heaven.

"Yes," Greg sighed, obviously reliving the same event. "You were most…accommodating."

"Sandwiched between the two of you, how could I not be? I'm a very lucky man," he smiled.

"I would say the same." Shadows ghosted over Greg's eyes. "I just don't want my luck to run out," he said softly.

John opened his mouth to ask him what he meant by that, but the DI silenced him with a soft kiss. Greg's mouth was warm and wet, laced with tea and the faint taste of Sherlock still on his lips. John moaned, pressing his tongue to Greg's, the mingling of flavors stirring to life places low in his belly.

They kissed for a moment longer, but Greg pulled back, turning John around.

"Here," he said, a little breathless, "let me help."

Strong hands cupped the injured shoulder and began to work the muscles with care. John sighed and leaned into the comforting touch. Yes, he really was very lucky.

Greg's hands left his body for a second, and he heard the soft whisper of skin on skin as Greg rubbed his palms together. The touch returned, this time warmer than ever so much more relaxing, as Greg continued to knead the aching muscles of his shoulder. They pushed and probed with a gentle surety and John could feel the tension and the burn subsiding. He leaned back further into the press of those magical hands with a contented sigh and closed his eyes. No, lucky didn't seem to be the adequate word. Blessed, more likely, because Greg's hands (along with the rest of him, to be honest) were simply divine.

The massage continued over the curve of his shoulder, the slide of his fingers so wonderful, working their way to his neck and upper back, thumbs moving in deep circles to ease the sting. Truly, the man and his hands were a thing to behold. So different from Sherlock, but their essence undeniably the same. Sherlock's hands were soft and smooth, his fingers long and slender, their touch always soothingly cool at first, but they never ceased to start fires in his soul at their initial caress. Greg's hands were wider, larger, and rougher, but no less tender, and yet strong and demanding in the long hours of the night. A very pleasing dichotomy.

It was amazing how two men, so diametrically opposed in their outward nature, could be so strikingly similar on the inside. They were a gift, perfection even in their flaws, and a small smile played across his lips at how they managed to work together to make him feel whole. Yes, definitely blessed.

"Interrupting, am I?"

John didn't open his eyes at the sleepy baritone coming from the doorway. What made him look up were Greg's hands dropping away with a start, as if he'd been burned. Or caught.

"No," John said, smiling at Sherlock's besheeted form. "Greg's just being sweet. You gave my shoulder quite a workout."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" The concern was palpable in Sherlock's voice.

"Nothing too terrible. You're awake, then? Rest well?"

Sherlock yawned with cat-like grace. "Woke up cold," he grumbled. "And alone," he added, casting a petulant glance at Greg.

"Sorry," Greg murmured at Sherlock's toes, which peeked out from beneath the sheet. "You were sleeping so soundly, and you needed the rest."

"The kettle's boiled, Sherlock," John offered, turning back to Greg with the blatant invitation to resume the rubbing.

A small furrow creased Greg's brow and he got up in a rush, leaving John's back to chill at the sudden absence of warmth. "I-I should go," he stammered, picking up his shirt, discarded from the night before, and shoved it on. Sherlock watched him with a puzzled concern and John's mouth fell open in silent protest.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

Greg picked up his trainers, not bothering to put them on as he headed for the door in what was almost a run. "Just, um…I've got some things to do. Cases, you know. Um…paperwork and such. I-I'll be on my way, then," he said hurriedly as he moved past Sherlock, bare feet slapping on the floor.

"But, it's Saturday, Greg," Sherlock protested, reaching for Greg and catching his elbow.

"Yeah, I-I know. Just been on my mind, that's all. Need to get it done."

"Greg," Sherlock pleaded.

His eyes darted quickly over Sherlock's face and he stuttered in, hesitantly dropping the briefest of kisses on Sherlock's downturned lips. "Really, Sherlock. I've got to go. Just give him a few more rubs on that shoulder and he'll be right as rain."

He slipped free of Sherlock's grasp and was down the stairs and out the door in the next breath.

Sherlock gaped for a moment and then turned to the sofa. "John?" There was a child-like bewilderment to the question.

John could only meet his gaze and shrug. "I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face went into full-on frown. "I don't like this, John. He's never left like that before."

"I know."

"It…it troubles me. I don't like that, either."

"Maybe it's nothing." The words sounded hollow in his chest.

Sherlock sniffed. He wasn't buying it.

"Well?" Sherlock said impatiently, wrapping the sheet tighter around him.

"Well, what?" John frowned.

Sherlock gestured to the door. "Go after him. Bring him home."

"Sherlock, he doesn't live here. The man does have a life outside our bedroom, you know."

The frown turned to a scowl. "Well, he belongs here. There's something off, John. He didn't even put his shoes on and he ran out of here like the devil was after him." The scowl moved to pout. "I don't like it."

"So you keep saying."

"Well, fix it then!" he snapped. "You know I'm bollocks at this sort of thing."

John sighed and shook his head. "He's a grown man. Whatever it is, he'll tell us when he's ready. Or not. He's not beholden to us. Not really."

"Well, he should be," Sherlock mumbled under his breath, staring hatefully at the door.

"Come on, let me make you that cuppa." But John's eyes drifted past the doorway as he made his way to the kitchen. As he passed Sherlock in his silent sulk, he couldn't escape the overwhelming sense of worry that charged through him. Sherlock was right. There was something wrong. And John didn't like it, either.

OOO

Greg placed his head in his hands, leaned forward onto his desk and groaned soundly. What had been a niggling feeling in the back of his mind had now become a serious problem. He thought he could handle it, this new dimension to their relationship (whatever that was), becoming part of a connection that was stronger than steel. But steel doesn't bend, doesn't flex, doesn't make for allowances. It can only be broken. Snapped in two. You just didn't walk into something like this and expect it to continue to run smoothly. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. But the more it went on, the more he allowed himself to fall, the feeling continued to grow, threatening to overtake him and drown him under the weight of it. Sherlock's question had said it all, making it painfully clear.

"_Interrupting, am I?"_

He was. Getting between something he really had no claim to. How had he ever thought he had a place there? He should have known he could never carve a place for himself in the force that was Sherlock and John. Stupid, is what it was. Naïve and stupid. He groaned again.

"Idiot," he mumbled. "You stupid, bloody fool."


	2. Chapter 2

"It's been three days, John," Sherlock grumbled from the sofa. "Three days," he repeated, as if pointing it out again would somehow add to its importance.

"I know," John sighed, looking up from the laptop.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed a hand over bleary eyes. "He hasn't returned any of my texts. I even called. _Called._ And you know how I hate that."

"He hasn't returned mine, either. I've left a couple of voicemails."

"This is serious, John. It's not like him."

John closed the laptop and set it aside. "I agree."

Sherlock looked down at the coffee table, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world was perched squarely on them. He knew without a doubt that's how Sherlock felt. He knew he was running it over in his mind, trying to make sense of it and coming up empty.

"Things have suddenly changed, haven't they?" he asked quietly. His voice was even, but John could hear the concern and the fear that lay underneath.

"Possibly, yes."

Sherlock looked up at him, a frown of displeasure etched across his face. It was the same frown that had been plastered there for the last three days since Greg had left the flat. He was beginning to think it was permanently frozen into the crease of his lips.

"He has been distant, hasn't he? I've been thinking about it, upset that I hadn't noticed it."

"Thinking back, I would say yes." John scooted back in the chair and tucked his feet beneath him. "But you know him better than I do. My purview of observation is limited when it comes to Greg."

"But you care for him as much as I do." It was a statement, but it certainly felt like a question.

"Of course. You know I do. I care deeply for him."

Sherlock nodded absently. "Maybe you're right. Maybe this is nothing. Perhaps I'm not thinking clearly. I-I haven't slept well." John arched an eyebrow. "I know, I know. Neither have you. It's keeping us both up at night. Why do you think that is, if we're both contemplating that this is nothing?"

John considered the question for a moment, and then moved to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa. He pulled the taller man into his arms and smiled as Sherlock melted bonelessly into him. He pressed a soft kiss into the unruly mop of dark curls and sighed.

"Because we're both in love with him."

Sherlock pulled back and stared into his eyes, their depths alive and dancing with heavy emotion. "We are, aren't we?" he whispered.

"Excellent observation," John said dryly.

"Don't get cute," Sherlock mumbled, shoving his face into John's chest.

"I'm always cute."

"Yes, you're insufferably adorable. Now stop it."

"As you wish, my love."

Sherlock sat up, face drawn and serious. "We should look for him."

John shook his head. "He's not a lost puppy, Sherlock. What, are you going to put up fliers? 'Lost: One ridiculously sexy DI. Property of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson'. It doesn't work like that." He put a hand on Sherlock shoulder, pointedly ignoring the sudden pout.

"That's not funny, John."

He gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze. "Have you considered the possibility that Greg may not want to come back? There's a reason for his distance. Maybe he's not happy with us."

Sherlock scoffed and scrunched his face, the unspoken "Really?" highlighting his features.

"I just think—"

"I'm tired of thinking!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing off John's hand and rising to his feet.

"Sherlock!" John pleaded, but he was already headed up the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"To find Greg, of course," he called over his shoulder. "You stay here in case he comes back."

John opened his mouth to protest, but shut it, knowing it would be futile to try to dissuade him. He slumped back against the sofa cushions and offered up a silent prayer that Sherlock wouldn't make things worse, whatever the things were. He groaned inwardly. Not bloody likely.

OOO

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and fished out his mobile.

NEED YOUR HELP. - SH

WHAT NOW? - MH

HAVE LOST LESTRADE. - SH

DID HE DIG OUT UNDER THE FENCE? YOU SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL. - MH

NOT FUNNY. FIND HIM. - SH

DOES HE WANT TO BE FOUND? - MH

IRRELEVANT. FIND HIM. - SH

Sherlock tapped his foot on the concrete as he waited for Mycroft's response. At two minutes, he contemplated texting again. Mycroft obviously didn't understand the urgency of his request. Twelve seconds later, his mobile buzzed again.

HIS KEY CARD WAS SWIPED AT THE YARD ON SAT MORN. NO RECENT ACTIVITY. POSSIBLY STILL THERE. - MH

AGAIN, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MAKE HIM HIDE IN HIS OFFICE FOR THREE DAYS? - MH

PERSONAL. THANK YOU. - SH

PERSONAL AND APPRECIATION? NEVER MIND, DON'T WANT TO KNOW. CCTV CONFIRMS. HASN'T LEFT SINCE SAT. - MH

Sherlock tucked the phone away and hailed a cab. Greg had some explaining to do.

OOO

Greg looked up from his desk as Sherlock swept in with a dramatic flourish, slamming the door behind him. The consulting detective's eyes roved over him with distinct scrutiny and his eyes narrowed.

"Good God, Greg. You look like absolute shite."

"Always lovely to see you, Sherlock. You're really getting the hang of this compliment thing."

"You're avoiding us. Why?"

"Straight to the point. How refreshing," Greg muttered. "You mind closing the blinds? I'd prefer it if the entire Yard didn't witness this conversation."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's your office."

"So it is," Greg frowned. "Don't make me ask you to leave."

Sherlock blanched briefly, but did as instructed.

He'd known he would have to face them sooner or later, but now, with Sherlock standing there, agitated and angry, his heart dropped. He really wasn't prepared for this. Not now. He should have run. Yes, in hindsight, he should have run. Scotland was nice this time of year, wasn't it? The merits of an extremely long holiday in Edinburgh vanished as Sherlock turned and pierced him with a penetrating gaze.

"Happy?"

"That remains to be seen. What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"I should ask the same of you. Shutting yourself in here for three days. You could have rung. A text, even. I texted you. John texted you. I _called_. And you didn't answer. What the bloody hell did you think I would do?"

"Apologies," he murmured. "Tell John I'm fine."

Sherlock threw his mobile across the desk. "Tell him yourself."

"Sherlock—"

"Three days, Greg! And not a bloody word. You bolted out of the flat like a scalded cat, without your shoes, without indication that you weren't coming back. Without your shoes!" he roared.

"Calm down," Greg hissed. "And lower your voice."

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What happened?

Greg ran a shaky hand through his hair and grimaced. He really needed a shower and some sleep before he confronted this head-on. But looking at Sherlock's tense form and restrained emotion, he realized that wasn't going to happen. Damn. He was going to have to do this now, whether he liked it or not.

"It's complicated, Sherlock—"

"Complicated? A fortnight ago, you kipped off work and we had a two-day love-in at Baker Street like a trio of blasted hippies, and now it's 'complicated'?"

Greg's mouth twitched. "Which one of us was Yoko?"

"Don't," Sherlock warned. "Don't make light of this."

"I'm not. I don't expect you to understand. John, either."

"Try me."

Greg opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat closed painfully and he felt his stomach lurch. He snorted delicately and tried again. "I-I just…it's me. I've been…Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I can't do this. Not here. Not now."

"So come home. Come back with me and we can talk about this. Whatever this is."

Greg shook his head, heart heavy with dread. "Sherlock—"

"Please, Greg. Please. Come home with me." The soft plea was doing terrible things to his resolve. "I promise you can talk to us. John's waiting. Whatever we've done, we can fix it."

God, the child-like expression was killing him, like a sharp blow to the gut. This was difficult enough without Sherlock looking like a kicked dog.

"You haven't—"

His next words were cut off as Sherlock rounded the desk and pulled him to his feet, silencing him with a kiss. It was rough and demanding, and he could feel Sherlock's tension from the past three days ebb into the embrace. It was impossible to resist the pull of his lips and Greg sighed, leaning into him in defeat.

At that, Sherlock gentled, raising his hands to tenderly cup the sides of his face, his fingers stroking lightly over his cheeks. Sherlock released him and rested his forehead on Greg's.

"Please, Greg."

"Okay, Sherlock," he conceded. "We'll do it your way."

"Good," he murmured. "I believe it's also noteworthy to mention that we are in possession of a working shower and an extra toothbrush. You require them." Sherlock grinned.

"Cheeky bastard."

"Yes, but I'm not the one who's ripe. Come on," he said, pocketing his mobile. "Let's get a cab." Sherlock pushed him toward the door.

At least he was going to get his shower.


	3. Chapter 3

Hurriedly, he lathered and scrubbed off the last three days, letting the hot water and soap wash away some of his hesitation. He'd given in too easily, and he knew it. But Sherlock's boldness to drag him back here and talk about this, coupled with the concern and hurt in those expressive eyes had hit him hard. Damn. He should've held out. Should've stood his ground and told Sherlock to go and leave him to his misery. Then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have ended up here now, contemplating all the ways this was about to blow up in his face and thoroughly wreck him for good. Hindsight, Greg decided, was a bitch.

He turned off the spray and stepped out to towel off. Dry, he pulled on one of John's tees and a pair of Sherlock's pajama pants, conveniently folded neatly near the sink. His own clothes were gone. The smile crept across his face before he could stop it. This was John's doing. He did notice, however, that his trainers were conspicuously absent. He peeked into the bedroom. Nope, gone. Hidden in some dark crevice of the flat, no doubt. That was Sherlock.

He took a deep breath and faced himself in the mirror. _God, man, Sherlock was right. Absolute shite. _It was startling to see the confusion and sadness in his own eyes, the tight undercurrent of need and want that played across his features. Lost. Pathetic. He felt the hot well of tears press behind his eyes and he braced his arms on the sink, suddenly going weak in the knees. He sniffed loudly, willing them away. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake, mooning like a cow-eyed teenager over two men he had no claim to. _You fool. You have no place here._ He rubbed a shaky hand over his face to clear his head and headed downstairs before his nerve completely vanished.

His heart plummeted as he entered the sitting room. Sherlock and John sat side by side on the sofa, their foreheads touching, gazing into each other's eyes. John's thumb listed in lazy circles on the back of Sherlock's hand, which he had firmly in his grasp. They were having a moment and he had just blundered in. Again.

Sherlock was the first to look up. "Feel better?"

"Cleaner," he conceded.

"Sherlock's made tea," John offered, rising.

"Are we so English as to assume that a cuppa and a Jammie Dodger will fix everything?" The cold snap to his voice stopped John in his tracks and he immediately regretted his snark. It wasn't their fault, after all. They couldn't help that they fit so well together. Couldn't help it that what he saw between them was pure and perfect and every time he imagined himself a part of it, he came away feeling like a rent boy floundering in an existential crisis. Fuck.

"Well, it can't hurt, can it?" John murmured, looking wounded. Double fuck.

"I'm sorry," Greg sighed. "This…this isn't your fault."

John didn't reply as he went to the kitchen.

Sherlock managed to lessen the look of shock on his face and gestured to the chair. "Please, sit down."

Greg sat and John returned with a cup and saucer. He reached for it, but John made no move to hand it over. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and he couldn't quite reconcile what was happening within John's blue depths. John smiled warmly and handed him the saucer, bending down to brush a kiss across his lips as if to say 'no harm done', and then resumed his place on the sofa. Greg took a sip and set the cup on the floor.

John and Sherlock clasped hands once again and looked at him expectantly. _Christ, here we go._ Greg's mouth suddenly went dry and his brain began to cloud as his stomach rolled over. He wanted to curl up and disappear into the chair until the ache and the fear subsided, until he was able to salvage at least some miniscule part of his dignity and put this ugly mess behind him. He would have to request a transfer out of London, of course, because there was no way he could remain here once this was finished. No, he could never stand across another body with them and pretend like none of this had ever happened. His heart would never survive it. If there was anything at all he was certain about at this moment, this was it.

The silence stretched on, long and uncomfortable, and he closed his eyes against it, letting the pounding rush of blood in his veins echo in his ears.

"Greg?" Sherlock's baritone cut in over the thrum.

"Yes?" he croaked, opening his eyes.

"Tell us."

He rubbed a tired hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh. "I don't even know where to begin, Sherlock," he said simply.

"How about we start with why you ran out of here like a bat out of hell three days ago? I'd say that would be a bloody good way to get the ball rolling," Sherlock said with a quiet hint of pique. John shot Sherlock a warning look, but remained silent.

"Well, I can't go anywhere now, can I? You've nicked my trainers," Greg replied flatly.

Sherlock snorted as if this were all very boring. "They're in the closet. Where they belong."

"What?"

Sherlock's glare was challenging. "You heard me."

"I see."

"Well, I don't!" Sherlock snapped. "Now, if you'll be so good as to explain, we can all move on. I'm finding this very…concerning."

"Concerning?" Greg parroted with a half-laugh.

"What Sherlock is trying to ask, rather unsuccessfully, I might add, is what is wrong, Greg? How can we help?"

"That is what I said," Sherlock pouted.

"No, it isn't. Shush." John admonished, patting Sherlock's hand.

Greg could see earnest emotion behind John's eyes and it only served to make him feel worse. He was an arse for putting them through this, for dragging them into his mire of self-pity. A right and utter bastard, for sure. He leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees and place his head in his hands.

"I can't do this," he said, exhaling softly. "I thought I could, but it's just not fair. To both of you."

"Are you happy with us? With our relationship?" John asked, his voice tight.

They both looked terrified. Sherlock had John's hands in a white-knuckled death grip and John leaned against Sherlock as if the taller man was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. It killed him.

"Unhappy?" He shook his head fiercely. "No, no, on the contrary. This is the happiest I think I have ever been in my life." He rested his hands on the arms of the chair for more support. "That's what's so difficult about this. But, I have to walk away."

Sherlock swallowed audibly and went white as a sheet, his eyes locking with John's, petrified beyond belief. John's mouth fell agape and his hand came up automatically to Sherlock's back in an attempt to soothe him.

"Walk away?" John echoed. "Why would you—what have we done?"

Greg's lips turned up in a sad smile even as it pained him to speak. "That's it. Nothing. You…the two of you are perfect. And I—I," his head fell back into his hands, unable to look at them, not wanting to see anymore of the confusion and anguish in their faces. It was simply too much to bear. "I don't belong here," he said, closing his eyes against the tears, but damn if they didn't come anyway, sliding down his face in a warm trickle of wetness. "What you have, you and Sherlock…" His voice trailed pitifully and he choked back a sob. No, he wouldn't do this. Wouldn't become a sodding mess in front of them. He owed them that much for his brief foray into their lives. He sniffed and met their troubled gazes head-on. "I told you before, John. I wouldn't come between you. And I meant it. I see the way you look at each other and I know that ultimately, there is no place for me."

Sherlock made a strangled noise and clutched at John, burying his face in John's shoulder with a cry of alarm.

He couldn't let that faze him. As much as it hurt to see the ever-confident consulting detective break down, he had to continue. Rip off the plaster, pain be damned. "I have enjoyed everything that we have ever done. Everything. All the time that we have spent together. In bed and out. But, I am only getting in the way. I can see that. The way you look at each other, God, you shine so brightly, it's bloody blinding. There's so much love there. So much desire. It's so strong. And for you to have to divide your affections, it's just not…well, it's not fair. And I won't be the cause. That's why this is so hard for me. I don't want to go. I have to. Because, I love you." Greg paused, surprised that had slipped out. It would have been easier if they didn't know, but there was no going back now. The point of no return had been eclipsed the moment he came downstairs.

Sherlock's head rose from John's shoulder and his eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears. John's face was forlorn, his eyes too bright with tears as well. Heartbreaking.

"I—I love you both. More than you can possibly imagine. And I know that there is no way you can ever look at me the way you look at each other. And for me to be here, in your lives, sharing your bed, trying to make that happen is just fucking cruel. Eventually, there would be a choice. I won't be the man who forces you to make it. It would destroy me." He took a deep breath. "So, you see, I have to walk away now, before it ruins all of us. There just isn't room for me. I won't break this apart just to push my way in."

Something in John's eyes softened and he turned to Sherlock, raising the other man's chin and catching him in a tender kiss. Sherlock sighed and smiled, hugging John tightly. John pulled back and something unspoken passed between them.

"Go on, then," John said to Sherlock. "You tell him."

Sherlock sniffed and nodded. The small smile left his face and his normal condescending demeanor resurfaced. "Greg, you're an idiot."

Greg's eyes widened.

"Really," Sherlock continued, "you can't be this stupid. You're a detective, for God's sake. A surprisingly good one, at that. Better than most of the slobbering cretins at the Yard. You can't tell me you haven't figured it out."

"W-what?" he stammered. "Figured out what?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as his shoulders relaxed. "It's your turn, John. I can't deal with him when he's this obstinate. It's tedious."

"Now, look—"

John's laugh cut him off. "We're both in love with you, you awkward sod. Hopelessly. Head over heels. You nearly sent this one," he jerked his head at Sherlock, "into apoplexy when you ran off. And I'm not putting up with that again."

Sherlock frowned.

"To put it simply," John went on, "we love you. You are a part of us. There wasn't' any more room because you'd already filled it, you git."

"No," Greg whispered, unbelieving. "It can't be."

Sherlock gestured a hand at him. "See, John. Tedious," he huffed.

"Oh, stop it, you," John chastised.

Sherlock wouldn't be dissuaded. "Can't you just kiss him or something? He's got that deer in headlamps look. Positively vapid. Really, you're so much smarter than that. Of course we love you. What's not to love, Greg?" Sherlock's voice dropped, the deep timbre going straight to his groin. "You're our silver fox. When you were gone, it was just awful." He shuddered. "Bloody awful."

"But, I thought—" Greg started.

"Well, you were wrong, not surprisingly," Sherlock quipped. "Wasn't he, John? Wasn't he wrong?"

John nodded in agreement as his eyes darkened. "Unequivocally." John took Sherlock's hand and they both rose from the sofa.

There was a change in both of them as they stood, a tension that now coiled between them, a tension that now reached out across the room, snaring him in its tendrils. There were no more shared smiles, no hint of amusement.

In the blink of an eye, there was a heat and a need that surfaced, its presence unmistakable. Undeniable. Greg's breath caught in his throat and his blood began to rush as Sherlock and John looked at each other, a silent communication between them, a calling so very primal in its essence, Greg was unable to drag his eyes away even as his heart began to sink in that old familiar way. He knew that look. He'd seen it pass between them so often he could sketch it from memory. A heavy mingle of love, lust, and desire, so volatile it could spark at any moment and consume them all in flames. That was the look he wanted. He braced himself, fearful in the back of his mind that it could all come crashing down, despite every protest that was just made to the contrary.

Slowly, achingly, they turned and fixed their gazes on him. There was only a slight shift, a further dilation of pupils, a stuttering of breaths, a race of beating hearts, but they were looking at him. _Like that._ Wanted. Needed. Loved. Every part of him rejoiced in that one sultry stare, that one inclusionary piece that completed the puzzle. With the landscape finally laid out before him, he stood, hands clenched at his sides, body flush with want, and waited.

"Greg?" John's voice was husky, labored.

He licked his lips. "Yes?"

"Upstairs. Get in our bed."


	4. Chapter 4

There was a mad scramble up the stairs to the bedroom, but once inside time stood still, as if all the hours to come were reduced to an infinitesimal crawl. Everything slowed, seconds ticking by in long, protracted pulses, the air in the room thick and heavy, and his lungs burned as he sucked in a breath. Greg braced himself against the frisson of nervousness that shuddered through him. Silly, he thought, after all, it wasn't as though this were his first time here. But in a way it felt like it was. There had been a shift in perception, a change in the game, as it were.

John closed the door and came over, wrapping his arms around Greg's waist, resting his chin on Greg's shoulder. He clasped John's hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. In return, he felt John's head turn and place a kiss just below his ear.

"Relax," John whispered. "Everything is fine. In fact, I think things are going to get a whole lot better."

He leaned back against the doctor and sighed. "As if that were possible," he murmured, smiling.

Sherlock removed his dressing gown and stepped closer. "Let's test that theory, shall we?"

The rest of Sherlock's clothes disappeared, and Greg took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. The man was a long, lean expanse of creamy pale skin and unruly dark curls. His eyes danced in a grey-green sparkle, moving to shades of blue and back again. He loved those haunting eyes and their ability to cut right to the heart of a man, leaving him open and bare. An amazing talent, even when it had been used against him. Sherlock's eyes were like pools of quicksilver, so changeable, volatile in a flash, and so very expressive, (yes, expressive) once you were able to see what lay beneath. It was a secret he and John shared, this intimate knowing of Sherlock's seemingly inscrutable face. It was all there, Sherlock's emotions and feelings buried deep; you simply had to know _how_ to look.

Sherlock's dark lashes fluttered and a long, elegant hand (just like the rest of him) came up to cup his face. A thumb passed over his cheekbone, whisper soft and warm. And that was another secret. He always looked so cold, as if he were cut from marble, as if you would get frostbite if you stood too close. But if you reached out, you would be surprised at how warm he actually was. And the closer he got, the more he radiated heat. Heat that now pulsed from his naked body in short, rippling waves. Heat that drew Greg in and wrapped around him like a blanket, safe and sure.

He tugged John's hands from his waist and stepped aside, curling his fingers around John's elbow to push him toward the taller man. John gently sidestepped the grasp, instead reaching out to pull Sherlock closer, trapping Greg between them.

He balked, confused. John's hands maneuvered under his shirt, bringing it over his head and dropping it to the floor. The doctor's hands pressed flat against his back and with a gentle shove propelled him into Sherlock's waiting arms. He suppressed a gasp as their chests collided, the sensation of warm skin on warm skin electrifying. He heard a rustle of fabric behind him, and then John's chest was flush against his back. He was naked now, evidence of his arousal poking insistently against Greg's backside.

John dropped wet kisses along the nape of his neck, grinding his hips back and forth. The slide of fabric and flesh on his rear was hot and erotic as John rubbed against him. Greg arched his head back with a hiss at the feel of John's tongue tracing decadent circles on his skin. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as Sherlock's irises did their darkening shift in color and he dropped his head to occupy himself with the other side of his neck.

His hands grabbed at Sherlock's hips, his fingers digging in to hang on as they continued to nip and suck their way around his neck and jaw, jolting his nerves awake in tiny shivers of desire.

There was no room to move, and the delicious friction they created as they pressed even harder against him, keeping him wedged between their naked bodies, was short-circuiting his ability to think. He could only _feel_, feel that silken slide of mouth on flesh, feel the wet heat of a pointed tongue that licked without mercy. He attempted to move, to reposition himself properly in this scenario, to return to his place. They refused to let him go.

Sherlock's deep baritone was hot and moist in his ear, the ends of his dark curls tickling him, teasing him as much as the breathy words he spoke.

"You are not just an extension here, Greg. You are not just another set of hands, another mouth. You are part of us." He shivered as John bit down sharply on his shoulder, punctuating the importance of Sherlock's admission, laving the bite with the flat of his tongue. "This is where you belong," Sherlock continued, running long fingers down his chest and grasping the waistband of his pajama pants. He felt John's hands cover Sherlock's and together they pushed them to the floor. He stepped out and John kicked them aside, groaning as his cock nestled against Greg's now bare arse. John's lips returned to their fiery perusal of his neck, moving to include his shoulders and his back.

Sherlock was still in his ear, buzzing around in his brain in a desire-addled fog, panting in hot little whuffs of breath and Greg had to groan as their erections rubbed together.

"We want you between us. We want to surround you. Just envelop every part of you." John's mouth murmured an incoherent approval against his skin as Sherlock kept talking. "We want to take you and fill you so completely it will be impossible to tell where we begin and where we end."

He bit down on his lower lip and growled as John's hand sneaked around to grab their erections and stroke with an agonizing slowness. Sherlock twitched in response, but continued.

"We will burrow so deep beneath your skin you will never be able to claw us out. So deep inside of you until you can't think of anything but pleasure. Until the only thing you know is John and I. Until the only thing you feel is us sliding across your flesh in rapture. Until the only thing your body knows is our touch, our smell, our taste. We will be the only thing you will ever want. The only thing you will ever need."

Greg let out a ragged cry and Sherlock's mouth was on his, plundering and seeking, swallowing every sound that came unbidden to the surface. He opened wide and met Sherlock's tongue, causing the other man to moan and search deeper. It was so good, so dizzyingly erotic. It was the sound of Sherlock's voice, the feel of John's body behind him. There could never be anything in the universe as soul-shattering as this. Their touch was all skin, hands, and mouths. Lips and tongues, wet and rasping in their exploration. Fire and heat and sex and greed. They simply devoured him.

Sherlock pulled back, desire evident in his blown pupils, pink mouth turned up in a feral smile, raging cock rubbing against his. Sherlock's thumb brushed across the bottom of his lower lip and he sighed wistfully.

"You're so perfect, Greg. So damned perfect." Those gorgeous lips found his ear again he rumbled, "I want to watch John fuck you while I come in your beautiful mouth."

_That fucking voice._ His throat opened on a moan as the vision filled his head, arching his body as John clutched hard at their cocks, the gesture a tacit sign that he approved of Sherlock's plan. Approved greatly.

There was a sharp, sucking bite between his shoulder blades and John stepped back, growling, "Get him to the goddamned bed, Sherlock. I'm done waiting." Sherlock snapped to attention at the command in the doctor's voice and grabbed him by the bicep and pushed him to the bed, immediately moving to straddle one of his legs.

Sherlock's fingers threaded through the short strands of his hair and covered his mouth in a ravaging kiss. He was a fierce whirl of lips and teeth and Greg moaned, clutching at Sherlock's shoulders as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked hard.

Suddenly, John was on the bed, kneeling between his thighs, worming his way in beside Sherlock. "Budge over, Sherlock," he snarled, huffing. "And fucking share."

Sherlock gave a low cry of protest as John pushed him aside, crawling up his body, blue eyes dark and wide with want. "Christ, Greg, your fucking mouth. So damned gorgeous after he's kissed you. Couldn't take it anymore. I've got to taste you." John's mouth descended, softer, yet just at hungry at Sherlock's.

There was a brief scrabble at the other end of his body as Sherlock made a place for himself, reaching and finding the hard, aching length of his cock. He bucked into the touch as Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the moist tip, stroking up and down with his own lubrication. John groaned as the arch of his body brought them flush, and he deepened the kiss in response, swirling his tongue in feverish circles, licking at every hidden crevice. John's mouth was a furnace as it claimed, so hot and wet as it raged, leaving behind a hint of sweet tea and spice, and traces of John (God, the taste of John), the fire spreading out through his limbs in a fury, drugging him, leaving him too weak to move.

Sherlock leaned up (bless his height) and dove for Greg's neck, burying his face in to nip beneath his jaw, alternating between his neck and John's.

The contact wasn't enough for Sherlock and he let out a frustrated whine, shoving his face between them, searching for lips and tongue as all three of their mouths fused together in a heated tangle, none of them able to taste enough of each other. Greg reached out, clamping a hand onto each of them for purchase, struggling to remain upright under the force of their weight.

John pulled back, eyes glazed with passion, face flushed pink with exertion. His eyes met Greg's and Sherlock broke the kiss, his eyes following Greg's. John swallowed hard, gasping for breath as he looked into the faces of his lovers.

"I love you both so much it kills me," John said brokenly. "So much. Don't ever leave, Greg. Don't ever leave us." Sherlock swooped in and kissed John soundly, and then they both turned back to look at him. The raw emotion in Sherlock's gaze told him that John spoke for both of them.

"Never," Greg managed. "Never again."

Sherlock whimpered and pressed his face into Greg's shoulder once more, and his hand came up to wind through the snarl of Sherlock's curls, damp with sweat. The tall man rubbed against him cat-like, little mewling noises and soft low trills of sound erupting from the back of his throat. Greg held him tightly, feeling Sherlock's body quake with wordless feeling.

He looked over Sherlock's head into John's face and returned his smile. John trailed a hand over Sherlock reverently. "He needs you, Greg. As much as he needs me. And _we_ need _you_."

Greg could only nod in silence as John's eyes flashed with a spark of something hot, blue fire that burned him to his soul. John's lips curved in a possessive smile and he slid down the length of Greg's body, grabbing at Sherlock's arm, dragging him along, down (sweet Christ, down) to the apex of his thighs.

John and Sherlock shared a brief kiss as they hovered over his straining erection. They broke apart and two sets of predatory eyes found his and Greg's breath caught, lungs seizing at the rage of lust contained in those depths.

John's hand slowly, gingerly, wrapped around the base of his cock and he bit back a whimper as John offered it to Sherlock, never once breaking the heated stare. He heard a low rumble of amusement from Sherlock (the teasing bastard) as his tongue darted out to lick in one long pass from the edge of John's hand to the head of the shaft.

Greg's eyes slammed shut and his head fell back against the headboard with a loud crack and he moaned in ecstasy, unable to contain the sound.

A second tongue joined in and the jolt of desire scissored through his body like lightning, burning everywhere it touched, and this time it was John's dark chuckle that reached his ears. God, it was delicious and wicked and cruel and wonderful and a host of other adjectives his brain couldn't conjure. All he felt was slick heat and wetness, wild and fierce, and then someone's (at this point they were both one) mouth swallowed him whole. He nearly came off the bed with a shout, and hands (Sherlock's hands, he knew the press of those fingers) stilled him as that mouth worked him over in agonizing, drawn out slides.

His eyes slitted open to see Sherlock's dark head dip lower and add his lips (ah, John's mouth, then) to the fray. Two pairs of lips alternated their smooth slide up and down the sides of his cock, while their tongues battled over him.

It was heaven and hell rolled into one dark dance of moist mouths and teasing tongues. Heaven, because the sensation was incredibly thrilling, making his body jerk alive in a sizzle of electrified nerves. Hell, because he wanted more. So much more.

Two hands reached lower as they continued their mouthy assault of his cock, John's hand gripping tightly onto his balls, rolling them in time with his mouth, while one of Sherlock's (had to be Sherlock's, because it was long and devilishly dexterous) gently traced his opening.

This time the hoarse cry breached his throat and he bucked hard, seeking more. His hand shot out to run through Sherlock's hair, clutching fingerfuls of the dark strands. Sherlock hissed loudly and leaned into the rough caress, increasing the pressure of Greg's grip. John squeezed his balls again and doubled time with his mouth and Greg's other hand found its way to the doctor's short sandy locks, holding him steady.

Sherlock growled and moved harder into the pull, and he felt John's lips curve into a smile at Sherlock's distress of wanting more and not getting it. John captured his wrist and transferred the touch to Sherlock, placing Greg's other hand on Sherlock's head. Now with both hands firmly attached to Sherlock's scalp, the tall man released him with a smack, howling fiercely in bliss as Greg tugged hard. Sherlock panted in a breathy mingle of huffs and grunts, punctuated with the odd "Yes!" and "Greg!"

The needy sound of his name falling from Sherlock's lips in that deep, sex-laden baritone made his cock twitch and he dug in tighter to Sherlock's hair, pulling harder, determined to wring out every last strand of Sherlock's self-control.

"Christ, Greg! Oh, fuck!" he growled. "Fuck, yes!" Sherlock plastered his body along the length of his, rocking his hips, fucking against him in reckless abandon.

Sherlock was rock hard and hot and Greg urged him on, curling his fingers, white-knuckling his grasp as Sherlock rasped his cock against him. God, he was so beautiful, so utterly debauched and beautiful, as he rutted, that angular face pinched as pleasure etched its way through every line and crinkle.

Sherlock snorted roughly and tensed. "I can't," he wheezed. "I'll…." The rest trailed off and Greg let him go, understanding. Sherlock rose to his knees and his body shook, skin flushed and slick with sweat. "John," he said, voice low and desperate. "Fuck him. I want his mouth on me."

Greg barely had time to register the change in position before John snatched his wrist and flung him around to all fours with considerably little effort. The next second, John was behind him, cock pressed into the cleft of his arse, bringing him face to face with Sherlock's weeping erection, straining and heavy with want. He opened his mouth, more than ready to receive, but Sherlock crouched suddenly and their eyes locked.

He briefly heard the shuffle of John in the nightstand and the snap of the lube, but he couldn't tear away from the intensity in Sherlock's eyes to look back.

Light to dark and dark to light, they shifted, the impenetrable stare boring straight to his heart like a knife. A chill went up his spine at what he saw reflected there, and for a second, he felt suspended in a moment that didn't want him, but Sherlock's eyes flashed again and it was gone, disappearing like a puff of smoke. Sherlock's gaze branded him like a touch; he could feel it on his skin like he felt John's fingers on his hips.

"For all the times I don't say it, I love you. You're a fire in my blood, the both of you. A balm to my soul. Never question just how much I love you." Sherlock's lips found his in a quick, rough kiss and he rose up, running his hands through Greg's hair, pulling him down.

He offered no resistance, couldn't have if he tried after Sherlock's heartfelt declaration, knowing full well what it meant that Sherlock put his feelings to words. Sherlock's head fell back, exposing the beautiful column of his neck as he groaned while Greg took him in one long swallow.

The taste of Sherlock burst on his tongue, salty and sweet, and so undeniably Sherlock. He moved his mouth in earnest, leaning into Sherlock's hands for support, loving the little twinges of pain/pleasure at his scalp.

John's fingers, cool with lubrication, worked behind him, first one digit, then two, the slow burn snaking through him, stretching him slowly. A third finger slipped in and he moaned over Sherlock's cock in delight. Sherlock's hips snapped forward at the sound, thrusting deeper into his mouth. He relaxed, taking it all in stride, as John's fingers backed away only to be replaced with the wide, blunt tip of his cock. John advanced, filling him with pressure and heat and he pushed back, needing more of him. John slid in to the hilt, releasing a healthy groan of his own.

"God, Greg, you're so tight for me. So fucking tight." Another deep growl. "Yes. So good."

Every nerve in his body slammed into overdrive as somehow they found an instant rhythm, the advance and retreat so well-timed, they moved like clockwork. He was so full, his body completely alive, so very aware of them, as if the act itself had suddenly become a sentient thing, knowing without words how to move, how to thrust, how to pleasure. The world became bright behind his eyes, his focus totally attuned, his universe condensed to _John_ and _Sherlock_. His heart ached and swelled at the enormity of it all, growing ever larger with the realization that this was his for the taking. Forever.

John's hips rocked faster, over and over without cease, each thrust brushing the tiny bundle of nerves threatening to explode at any moment.

"Fuck, Greg!" John panted, hips pistoning in their wicked cadence, and he leaned forward to reach down and grasp at Greg's cock, each stroke of his hand matching the push of his hips.

Two more passes and Greg was gone, shouting around Sherlock's cock as he erupted into John's hand. He quaked with his release, bearing down hard, and he heard John's breath stutter as he gasped, his own orgasm claiming him. John collapsed behind him, half-bracing his weight, placing biting kisses at the small of his back.

The aftershocks trembled through him as he breathed out heavily through his nose, redoubling his efforts on Sherlock's cock.

John's voice was husky and commanding from behind, and the masterful tone sent another shiver over his flushed skin.

"Come, Sherlock!" John shouted. Greg gave him one more long pull, swirling his tongue as he moved, wrenching Sherlock's orgasm from him in a deep wail. Sherlock came hard in his mouth, rocking feverishly to completion. He swallowed, relishing in the taste of him, continuing to lightly lick as Sherlock's tremors quieted.

John pulled free with care and Greg released Sherlock with a gentle slide of his lips. They fell together in a messy tangle of sweat and fluids, limbs twining together in a complicated know, seeking as much contact as possible. They lay for a long moment, pressing lazy kisses to mouths, shoulders, chests, and foreheads, murmurs of contentment and breathy declarations of love soft in the air.

Sherlock was the first to move, starting the clean up with huskily whispered endearments. They dressed in silence, sparing meaningful glances at one another, small, happy smiles on all their faces. There were no more words as they adjourned downstairs. John made tea while Sherlock settled himself in Greg's lap on the sofa, a blissful hum vibrating through him as Greg stroked his hair.

John placed the tray on the coffee table and gave Greg a wide smile as he sat down. Sherlock's breathing had fallen to deep and even breaths, finally losing the battle to slumber. John pulled Sherlock's legs across his lap and reached for the remote, finding some Doctor Who on the telly. He gave a satisfied huff and settled back against the cushions. Greg tucked Sherlock's head into his shoulder, closed his eyes and laid his head back, for the first time finally feeling at home and at peace with himself.

"You'll be moving in, then?" John's voice was soft, entreating.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

"Because it's going to take the both of us to handle him, you realize?"

"I've noticed."

"I guess we can sort all that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

END.

**A/N: If you liked this one, please take the time to comment and/or review. They feed the writer. Thanks for your time!**


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